


did i build this ship to wreck

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drowning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Merman!Jon, TMA Fantasy Week (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Jon wanted to know it all. Martin’s wants, his fears, his past heartbreaks. If he’d ever been left behind by someone he loved. And then Jon could share in kind. He wanted to share himself with such fierce intensity that both his hearts ached with the weight of it.That night, Jon sang.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 55





	did i build this ship to wreck

**Author's Note:**

> My super later entry for TMA Fantasy Week! Abandon hope all ye who enter here
> 
> Additional content warnings at the end

Jon had set two rules for himself: don’t get close, and don’t linger.

It had taken little effort to break both.

He'd found the ship a few odd weeks ago– or rather, it had found _him_. He'd been sunning himself on his favourite rocky alcove, the one with the soft limestone, when he'd been roused by raucous laughter.

 _Humans_.

He’d followed, curiosity piqued. There wasn’t much entertainment in the great blue void, after all, save the kind he made for himself. If a distraction was going to fall into his lap, he saw no need to turn it away.

Besides, watching humans always proved to be _very_ entertaining. Hearing them talk, seeing them move on their funny little legs, listening to their poor attempts at singing. They weren’t going to be luring anything with a pitch like that.

He got to listen to a voice that wasn’t his own, for a change. He hated the sound of his own voice.

He’d intended to leave soon. He’d never been particularly interested in humans as prey, and watching them chatter at a distance only proved engaging for so long. The sun would be setting soon; he needed to return home before the more opportunistic predators began their nightly hunts.

But that was when Jon saw the man.

 _Unassuming_ was Jon's first impression of him. Large in stature but with a quiet demeanour. A distance existed between him and the other humans, but not physical. No, this was more … intangible. While the other humans talked and drank their beer, shouted abuse and slapped shoulders, this man stood at the very edge of their group. An outsider looking in.

A peculiar shudder rippled through Jon’s scales, all the way down to the wisps of his tail. Just a chill, he told himself. After all, the last of the sun’s rays were disappearing over the horizon. On the ship, the humans hollered cries of goodbye, which morphed into fading footsteps until there was silence at last.

The man stayed.

Jon should have left. As fascinated as he was by humans, even he knew every second spent near them was asking for trouble. He would have been foolish to push his luck any further.

A fine argument for anyone with an iota of sense.

Instead, he’d held onto an outreaching cusp of the ship, letting it drag him through its wake.

Yes, yes, it was _dangerous._ But he wouldn't be much longer– only until his curiosity was satiated. Only until he could figure out why the man had caught his attention, what _this_ meant.

The man had moved to the edge of the ship, leaning against the railing, staring at the sky. _Idiot_ , Jon thought. If anyone else had been in Jon’s place, they would have taken the opportunity just for how _easy_ it would be. Melanie, certainly. And she would have bullied him for _not_ doing it.

He swallowed back the reflexive, aching pang. The pain he always felt when he thought of Melanie. Or Georgie. He shoved those thoughts back into their box, where they belonged, where they _shouldn’t_ be able to hurt him.

Here was something _new_. Something that could absorb his attention. How the man pulled out a journal, scribbling something down. How the man watched the night sky. How the stars glowed in his eyes.

His eyes …

_Oh._

Jon's breath caught somewhere deep in his chest. Within the man's eyes was quiet fog. A void, endlessly black, and the knowledge that if you cried out to it, nothing would answer. Inside them were the moon and the stars and the cold distance between them, a bridge impossible to gap even as you thrashed and pleaded and _begged_ to close it.

In the man’s eyes, Jon saw loneliness.

In the man’s eyes, Jon saw …

Jon slipped underneath the water. In his haste, he might have alerted the man, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get away from _here_.

He swam.

The next morning, though, he went back.

He shouldn’t have. He _knew_ that, _God_ he knew that, and he almost wished he hadn’t found the great, blasted ship again. But he did. And he found the man again, too.

He may have been mistaken; what he saw that night, that must have been just … a bout of wistful melancholy, brought on by the dark of night. He could get so _mournful_ at the sight of moonlight on the water's surface. He'd just been projecting again. A touch of dramatics, that was all. Georgie always said he had a tendency for it.

But, that night, when Jon saw the man’s eyes again, he knew. Not just in the man’s eyes, either– in the way he moved. Unsure. Hesitant. Making space as if he didn’t have a right to it in the first place. The way he spoke: gentle, but muted, as if he expected to be drowned out.

And Jon was … _glad?_ Relieved? Because he _hadn’t_ been mistaken. Because, after years of enduring that great blue void, years of cradling that gentle pain in his chest, cored and bleeding for as long as he could remember …

He’d found someone who _understood._

Jon followed. During the day, he swam in the wake of the ship, and when night fell, he clung to the ship's stern like an overgrown barnacle. He ate where he could– the occasional school of fish unlucky enough to cross his path– but it quickly became apparent it wasn't enough. He wasn't built for long-distance swimming, and his ribs, already so bony, were beginning to grow more pronounced than ever.

But it was worth it when the stars came out, and the man came back.

 _Marr-tin._ Jon had learned his name. It took some effort, parsing through the truly bogglingly amount of words the humans spewed, but Jon knew it. He’d been so _proud_ of himself for figuring it out. _Marr-tinn._ When the world was still and even the man had gone to sleep, Jon, alone in the water, would close his eyes and let the name roll off his tongue. _Hello,_ _Maarr-tin. My name is Jon. Hello, Marr-teen. Marr-tin. Mar-tin. Hello. I’m Jon._

Perhaps it was silly, but it still _mattered_ , because their first introduction had to be perfect, and Jon would _die_ if he couldn’t even pronounce the man’s name. And then they would be free to talk and talk and talk. _What is it that you write about, Martin? Poetry? Do you write stories? Please tell me about them. Do the stars inspire you? Do they make you feel a little bit less alone?_ _What comforts you? What frightens you?_

Jon wanted to know. He wanted to know it all. Martin’s wants, his fears, his past heartbreaks. If he’d ever been left behind by someone he loved. And then Jon could share in kind. He wanted to share himself with such fierce intensity that both his hearts ached with the weight of it.

That night, Jon sang.

He knew the second the man heard. Their eyes met, and electricity coursed through him. _He sees me._ But gone was the wistful, distant longing– instead, the glossy sheen of compulsion shimmered through them. Jon despised it, but it wouldn’t be much longer.

Stiff and purposed, the man climbed over the railing and down the ladder, toward the cold water. Jon hovered just at the edge, maintaining his song. _Patience._

What did he hear, when Jon sang? Jon had heard it was different for every human, a haunting melody of something they wanted enough to die for. He would have to ask when they were both far away and safe.

When the toe of Martin’s boot touched the water’s surface, Jon broke. He wrapped his arms around the soft, warm flesh of his middle and tore away from the ship.

Martin struggled, at first. Understandable, Jon thought, but there would be plenty of time for a proper explanation once they were away from the other humans and the danger they posed.

Eventually, the struggling weakened. Then, it ceased entirely.

Good. Jon tightened his grip. Martin could rest easy; Jon wasn’t about to let him go.

Within the safety of the grotto, they surfaced. Jon had been rather proud of himself for the discovery; humans needed the opportunity to breathe absurdly often. It must be dreadfully inconvenient to live with, but Jon would take the necessary steps to ensure Martin’s comfort.

“I apologise for the less than extravagant accommodations. Once we’ve gathered ourselves, we can return home.”

But Martin didn’t stir, his eyes shut. Oh. Had … had he fallen asleep during the journey? According to Melanie, humans required an _unfathomable_ amount of sleep. _Blast it._ This wasn’t ideal. Jon had … well, he’d already prepared so many _questions_. _What’s your fondest memory? Where would you go, if you could go anywhere? What do you consider beautiful?_

But there was nothing to be done about it. They would just have to wait here and rest until Martin woke back up.

“I ask for your patience in all this,” Jon said as he settled Martin on the gravelly shore of the alcove. “Outside of common knowledge, there’s very little I know about caring for humans.”

Martin’s face remained still. There was something different about it. Something about the shape of his eyes, of his soft, rounded curves. And then Jon remembered, with sinking hearts– Martin had been wearing those strange little spectacles, hadn’t he? They must have fallen off during the journey, now lost to the sea.

“Once we’re home, I’ll have everything you require,” he said, stomach churning with embarrassment. What a _stupid_ mistake to make. “I’ve, um … gathered an impressive collection of human baubles over the years. You’ll be pleased with it.”

Dark strands of wet hair fell over Martin's face. What were humans' opinions of touching amongst themselves? Were there rules? They always appeared to exchange casual brushes, caresses with little thought. Jon plucked a loose strand of hair, brushing it out of Martin's eyes. So much more delicate than Jon's own curls.

He smoothed the back of his hand down the soft flesh of Martin’s cheek. Once started, it was difficult to bring himself to stop. How could humans stand to be so _warm?_ And pulling back plush lips revealed frightfully dulled teeth– even baby gills had sharper canines than this. Jon would have to be responsible for breaking down Martin’s more robust meals.

"I've noticed you enjoy stargazing." Jon stroked Martin's hand; it was bigger than his own, comfortably cradling Jon's cheek. "Do you have any interest in astronomy? I've always had a fascination for it; I've even amassed quite a hodgepodge of spyglasses over the years."

Water lapped over the shores of the grotto, tearing back the gravel piece by piece. By now the scent of Martin's skin had intertwined with the taste of saltwater on Jon's tongue. The mix was heady, and a swirling dizziness settled just behind his eyes. It was _especially_ potent in the juncture of Martin’s neck, Jon discovered, gills flaring.

When he dragged his face down the soft skin of Martin’s cheek, such a sharp contrast to his own scaly flesh, an aching, near painful tremor shivered through him. It had been a long time since Jon had marked anything; Georgie had used to indulge him, sometimes for hours if she let him get away with it, back before they became adults.

_Come on, Jon. We’re not kids anymore._

Shame and embarrassment welled in the back of Jon’s throat. Martin wouldn’t see it like that, though. Martin was a human, after all, so there was no reason for him to guess the truth about Jon. How _strange_ he was for craving the touch of another, even after adolescence. How … _childish._

Over and over, Jon dragged his face over Martin’s, until their scents were indistinguishable from each other and Jon’s chest purred with deep satisfaction.

_–belong to you, belong to me, take care of you, take care of you, belong, belong, belong–_

Blood.

Jon leapt back.

Martin’s cheek had been torn open, glistening with sinew and muscle.

 _“Oh god.”_ Jon scooped up seawater, washing off the oozing wound. _“Sorry, sorry, ‘m sorry–”_ Jon rinsed and rinsed and rinsed until, at last, the blood had stopped. _Idiot. Stupid goddamn idiot, fucking moron–_

But amid his horror, Jon couldn't help but notice … Martin still wasn't stirring.

Wouldn’t … wouldn’t that have _hurt?_ Jon had accidentally sliced his cheek on some coral once and the pain had been unbearable. Did humans just have an unusually high pain tolerance? But that … that didn't _feel_ right.

“Mmarr-tin?”

Silence.

Perhaps … Perhaps Martin was just a heavy sleeper. Yes. That made sense. How many times had Jon woken up to the hungry mouth of an orca nearly on top of him? But that presented a new problem; Jon hadn’t planned to _stay_ here, not for very long. Jon would need to procure food that Martin could eat. Humans liked fruit, yes? Went mad over the stuff? It might be enough to rouse Martin. Blast it all, he should have fucking _prepared_ for this.

He marked Martin’s arms and his chest and, under the water, scraped his face over the hard rock of the grotto until his flesh began to chafe. There. Now others would, at the very least, think twice before investigating the grotto. It was Jon’s only option.

“I promise I won’t be long.”

Martin slept.

A part of Jon worried Martin would awake to nothing but the grotto, all alone, before Jon returned, but he ended up having nothing to fear. When he returned, Martin continued to sleep. Somehow, that made Jon feel even worse.

“I, um … I never would have guessed humans required so much rest,” he said as he dragged himself onto the shoal, depositing all the fruit he’d managed to carry. “I must admit, I’m at a loss as to how humans managed to accomplish so much when your bodies are so demanding.”

His voice echoed through the walls of the grotto, flung back at him like mocking laughter.

 _Patience._ He just needed a little more patience. Martin’s voice would join his soon enough.

Jon peeled the fruit. Martin’s teeth were so frightfully dull, after all, he needed to be careful. He dragged the nail of his thumb under the fruit’s slick flesh, freeing the juicy meat. “I hope you don’t require an overabundance of this. The smell of sugar makes me a bit dizzy.”

Dizzy, indeed. The cavern soon brimmed with the noxiously sweet odour. How was Martin not rousing at the smell of it?

“Georgie enjoyed this stuff, too, though. It always made her sick, but she ate it anyway. It _baffled_ me. Oh, um. Georgie is an old friend of mine- or rather, we grew up together. I doubt you’ll have the opportunity to meet her, though, as it’s customary to go our own way once we reach adulthood. Not including mated pairs, of course.” Jon drove his thumb into the soft meat of the fruit, the sticky liquid bleeding down his hand. “We’re meant to be alone.”

Silence.

“I’ve always felt … Well, I never understood why things _must_ be that way. I’ve been watching your lot for some time and it doesn't _seem_ like that’s the case for humans, but maybe … Do you think you understand what that might be like? Being … being alone?”

He coughed, the muscles in his throat flaring up. It was quickly growing sore.

“Sorry. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an opportunity to talk this much.” He smiled. “I’ll refrain from monopolizing our conversations in the future, if you’d prefer.”

Silence.

Silence.

– _silencesilencesilencesilencesilence–_

“I … I wish you would wake up. I understand it’s all a little shocking, but I promise the accommodations at my home will be more comfortable. But I _need_ you to wake up first. Do you understand? Here.” He pressed the sliced fruit against Martin’s lips. _Surely_ he would rouse at its overpowering taste?

But there was nothing.

Jon cupped Martin’s face, minding the gaping wound. Were humans supposed to be this cold? Yes, the grotto was chilly, as far as Jon could tell, but humans stayed warm on the inside the whole time, yes? He reached for Martin’s side and then swore at himself because humans didn’t have their hearts in their side, _idiot_. But then _where?_ Their chest? Jon pressed his head against his sternum.

Nothing.

No breathing.

His lips had turned a dull shade of blue.

Help. Jon needed to get help. Someone would know what to do, someone would help him _fix this_. He slipped out of the grotto, but when he reached open water, he stopped.

The void stood in front of him, emptier than ever before. He could swim for hours and hours and encounter nothing but flowering coral and the shells that lurked on the ocean floor.

In the endless, infinite blue void, there was nothing for him.

No one to reach for.

No voice beside his own.

When Jon returned to the grotto, he truly saw it. Martin's stillness, his stiffening muscles, the deathly parlour of his once bright and warm face. Something dark and twisted curled up tight in his stomach.

Jon had done this. He’d … he’d …

Something stuck out of Martin’s pocket. The journal, crusting with still-drying saltwater.

Jon flipped it open, clinging to the wispy thread of hope–

Gone. The ink had been hopelessly smudged.

He sank onto the gravelly shore. Frantic words pressed against his lips

– _imsorrypleaseforgivemehellomynameisjon_ –

but he said nothing. 

There'd never been a point to begin with.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Face gouging, Martin dies because of Jon
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/).


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